CHAPTER THREE
“Place duty first, usefulness next, ornament last.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Amug of tea was placed beneath Hugh’s nose, its shade as murky as an old penny.
“My utmost thanks, Mrs Benson.” He clasped the mug with a firm hand; there was no choice. “You certainly know how to warm a man’s cockles of a morn.”
The woman guffawed and winked. “Tha’s what Mister Benson says too.”
Hugh grinned and shifted on the incommodious bench. His superior at the Home Office had summoned him here for nine but then left him to kick his heels in the damn corridor. The bells of Whitehall Palace had just chimed ten and a restless frustration gripped him. “Do you know who’s in there at the moment?”
Mrs Benson’s rather broad shoulders lifted and lowered. “Big fellow with a big nose.”
“Wellington returned home?”
“Has he a big nose?”
“Yes.”
She sank to the bench and sidled up. “Could be but…” Beetle-brown eyes peered left. Then right. “He asked fer coffee, don’t yer know.” She tapped her nose. “I mean, what Englishman drinks coffee? He should have proper English tea. From England. If this country goes to the dogs, I’ll blame coffee.” She stood and pulled her shoulders back. “Drink up, lad.”
Hugh regarded the beverage, girded his loins and took a gulp.
Gads.He could feel the tannic strength right down to the tassels on his Hessians. “As per usual, Mrs Benson, it’s abundantly…strong.”
“Thankin’ yer. I steep it fer an hour then re-boil it. The His Nibs before, Lord rest his soul, said me brew gave a man character.” She pointed at a plate of substances upon her trolley. “Biscuit? I make them meself. None of that fancy French nonsense like the new His Nibs in there orders from Mons’ur Pierre’s Patipisserie.”
“Patisserie?”
She shrugged and waggled a stubby finger at the plate.
Hugh had been in many a tight spot before – a crossbow aimed at his nether regions and a dagger held to his throat – but this called for quick wits and…sycophancy. “They appear so light and divine, Mrs Benson, as though floated down to earth from the heavens above.”
“Oh, you’re such a fine lad.” And his shoulder was batted with fists the size of a prizefighter’s.
“But as such cruel misfortune would have it, I’ve just this morn been to the tooth-puller and biscuits are forbidden for…a good three weeks.”
“Don’t yer worry yerself. I’ll keep some by till then.”
Bugger.
He’d not thought that through. “Splendid.”
“Well, I’d best be goin’. There’s a new clerk transferred from Records who hasn’t sampled me jam tarts yet.” And off she lumbered.
A pot plant to one side of the bench received the remnants of the heady beverage, although with its stiff upright demeanour and hairy stems, it appeared to have already drunk its fill.
Leaning back, he stared to the monotonous white wall of the corridor, but as the creak of Mrs Benson’s trolley faded, his smile did likewise.
For he used to sit here with Phoebe’s father, Ross Thornton.
When first recruited to the Home Office, Hugh had been as green as the Welsh spring grass and it had been the elder Ross who’d become his mentor, taught him all – from the black arts of locks to how to wield a blade and stay alive in the rookeries of London – but Hugh had also come to know the Thornton family, watched Phoebe grow from impish toddler to mischievous child.
Over those years, he and Ross had become close friends, comrades in arms, able to know one another’s thoughts and to communicate with no more than a nod. Ross had been a man of admirable strength who’d only ever seen the good in people, despite the sordid depths their missions had taken them. And furthermore, Hugh owed him his life.
